Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day

by Ben Loory

  The interview lasts for quite some time. The man describes his childhood and his views on life and talks at length about his job and how much he dislikes it.

  So what’s next? says the lady when he’s done with it all.

  Next? says the man. What do you mean?

  Next, says the lady. Next is what I mean. You know, what are you going to write next?

  The man frowns. He hadn’t thought of that. He hadn’t thought about writing more.

  I don’t know, he says. I haven’t figured that out.

  Well, says the lady, one thing’s for sure: you won’t have to self-publish again!

  When the lady is gone, the man sits for a while, thinking. Then he gets out a piece of paper and sharpens his pencil. He sits down and tries to write. He tries and tries and tries.

  But every single thing he writes is about the lady reporter.

  I’d love to go out with you, the lady says when he calls. When exactly did you have in mind?

  The man and the lady go out for drinks that night. The lady tells him all about her childhood and her views on life, and goes on at length about her job and how much she likes it.

  Have you decided what you’re going to write next? she says when they get to the end of the night.

  Well, the man says, if you want me to be honest, I don’t think I want to write anymore.

  The man and the lady spend lots of time together. The man asks her to marry him and she says yes. They have a nice wedding and buy a little house and settle down in the suburbs and have kids.

  Fourteen years later, the man writes another poem. He does it in the TV room while the kids are at school. When it’s done, the man reads it over.

  This one’s even better! he says.

  And he smiles and locks it in a drawer.

  THE ROPE AND THE SEA

  A BOY MEETS A GIRL ON THE BEACH, AND INSTANTLY falls in love.

  Would you like to go for a walk? he says.

  Okay, says the girl.

  The two of them walk along the waterline; they talk together and laugh.

  What’s that? the girl suddenly says.

  There’s a rope leading up out of the water.

  The two walk over and stand beside it. The girl looks out at the sea.

  Where do you think it goes? she says. And what’s at the end of it?

  I don’t know, says the boy. Let’s find out.

  He looks at her.

  She agrees.

  The boy and girl start to pull the rope in.

  It’s a very nice rope, says the girl.

  Yes, says the boy. It’s a good material. And it seems very strong.

  Together, they pull the rope a long time. It begins to pile up on the shore. But as they pull it farther and farther in, they find it gets harder to pull.

  There must be something big at the end, the girl says. Do you think we should keep pulling?

  We’ve come this far, says the boy. We’re so close. I think we should keep going.

  The boy and the girl strain and pull and pull. And when the last few yards come in, they see why pulling had become so hard—there’s an immense, canvas-wrapped object tied to the end.

  What is that? the girl says.

  I don’t know, says the boy.

  The two move closer to the object. The boy bends down and unties the knotted rope. Then he peels back the canvas.

  Oh God, says the girl.

  The boy stares down.

  Inside are two dead bodies.

  A man and a woman, lying side by side—lying in each other’s arms. They are bloated and white, and the fish have been at them.

  I’m going to be sick, the girl says.

  What do we do now? she says a moment later.

  I don’t know, says the boy. CPR?

  CPR? says the girl. They’ve been dead for days! Maybe for weeks—maybe more.

  Have they? says the boy, looking down at the bodies.

  He can’t really tell.

  Maybe they have, he finally says. Maybe; I don’t know.

  But still, he says, we can’t leave them like this. Shouldn’t we get the police or something?

  The police? says the girl, looking around. You really want to get involved in this?

  In the end, the two of them roll the bodies back down They can’t seem to tie the rope correctly, so the corpses float out separately, one by one.

  Well, says the girl, wiping her hands, I guess that takes care of that.

  Yes, says the boy, looking over. Yes, I guess it does.

  And the girl says good-bye, and wanders off, and the boy stands there and watches. And then he turns and walks away in the direction of his home.

  But that night, the boy cannot sleep. In his mind, he sees the two bodies drifting. And then, in the wind, he hears their voices—two drowning voices, calling.

  They’re alive, says the boy. I knew they were. I have to save them.

  And he runs.

  It is dark, but the great full moon overhead illuminates the beach. The boy strips off his clothes and wades on in, then pushes out into the sea. He swims in the direction the bodies went. He swims for hours and hours. He searches and searches everywhere, but there is nothing, nowhere, anywhere. All he finds are endless waves, endless cold black waves. And, he finds, every wave is colder than the last that came.

  Please, says the boy, his teeth starting to chatter. Please, just let me live to find them.

  And then up ahead he sees an arm in the dark, and he knows his prayers have been answered.

  He reaches out, and finds a thin wrist. He takes hold—it’s the woman he’s found. He pulls her to him, ducks beneath, then rises to buoy her up.

  And when he does, there is the canvas, spread out against the dark sky. It looms like a sea creature unfolding its wings, and then it comes down, all around them.

  The boy sinks beneath. The water crowds in. And as the rope coils and ties, the boy sees the body in his arms is the girl.

  He slips into the darkness of her eyes.

  THE KNIFE ACT

  A WOMAN AND HER FRIEND ARE IN A KNIFE STORE.

  Hey, says the woman, you ever see one of those shows where the guy throws the knives at the lady?

  Yeah, says her friend, and the lady doesn’t get hurt?

  Yeah! says the woman. We should do that!

  Okay! says the friend. Okay, if you want!

  So the two buy lots of knives and run off to go practice.

  Do you want to throw or catch? the woman says a moment later.

  Catch! says the friend. I mean . . . !

  Both women laugh, and then the friend goes to the wall, and the woman tentatively takes aim.

  Be careful! says the friend.

  I will! says the woman.

  And she rears back and starts to throw.

  The knife flies cleanly through the air—and lands perfectly in the center of the friend’s stomach.

  In the hospital, the friend is very angry.

  You’re the one who wanted to catch, says the woman.

  Yeah, says the friend, but not with my body!

  I told you I was sorry, says the woman.

  A few months later, the friend is released. She calls up the woman on the phone.

  Are you ready? she says. ’Cuz this time it’s my turn.

  Ready, the woman’s answer finally comes.

  The two of them meet at the practicing spot. The woman brings the bucket of knives.

  Here you go, she says, handing it to the friend. I’ll go stand in front of the wall.

  The friend assumes the thrower’s position, and chooses a knife from the bucket.

  This one looks sharp, she grins. Very sharp. Let’s hope it doesn’t hurt too much.

  The friend squints her eyes and bends forward like a pitcher, then straightens up and goes into the windup. The knife hand comes up, and the knife hand goes back, and then the knife hand comes forward.

  The blade flies out cleanly, whistling through the air, like an arrow tow
ard the woman by the wall.

  It’s just about to plunge into her heart—

  When abruptly, it disappears.

  What? says the woman. Where did it go?

  I don’t know! says the friend. And I almost had you!

  The two stand in silence, looking around.

  Do you think it’ll come back? the woman says.

  It sure doesn’t look like it, the friend finally says.

  Well, says the woman. What do we do now? Do you want to try a different knife?

  They look to the bucket.

  All of the knives are gone.

  Hmm, says the friend. This is strange.

  Yes, says the woman. I agree. And also, on top of that, I’m really getting tired of standing by the wall like this.

  Well, says the friend. Let’s do something else.

  Like what? says the woman. A movie?

  I don’t know, says the friend. Anything, really. This whole knife thing got really boring.

  So the two women link arms and slowly walk away, leaving the empty bucket behind.

  For a while, the world is silent and still.

  And then, off in the distance, there’s laughing.

  THE FISH IN THE TEAPOT

  A MAN FINDS A FISH IN HIS TEAPOT.

  Hmm, he says. That’s odd.

  He decides to transfer the fish to a bowl. He does, and watches it for a while.

  It seems like a good fish, he says to himself. I just don’t get how it got in the teapot.

  The man tells his friend about the fish in the teapot.

  Someone must be playing a joke on you, his friend says.

  Who? says the man. And what kind of joke is that?

  I don’t know, says his friend. But what’s the other explanation?

  The man sits at home, watching the fish, trying to figure out what’s happened.

  Who put you in my teapot? he says to the fish.

  But the fish doesn’t bother to answer.

  It just swims around the bowl looking for an exit.

  That night the man has a dream. In his dream all his friends are leaving his house with teapots tucked under their arms. Apparently the man has hundreds of teapots—and also hundreds of friends—for the dream seems to go on for hours and hours.

  Good lord, says the man, waking up.

  He goes into the kitchen and stares at his teapot. Of course, there is only one.

  I must be losing my mind, the man says.

  Then he looks at the bowl.

  The fish is gone.

  What the hell? says the man.

  He looks all around. He checks the counter, the floor, under the fridge. He goes into the dining room and searches there too. He checks the living room and the bedroom to be sure. Then he goes into the bathroom and checks the toilet and the tub.

  But the fish is gone.

  Completely gone.

  It’s gotta be one of my friends, the man says. Probably the same one who left the fish to begin with.

  He hunts around and finds his address book, puts it in his pocket, and goes out.

  The man goes to visit every friend he has. He pushes into their homes and stomps around. He interrogates them and the members of their families, and peers into their closets and drawers.

  But he can find neither hide nor hair of his fish, and all of his friends are frowning.

  You were never my friend to begin with, one says.

  We don’t like you, says another. Please leave.

  When the man crosses off the last name in his book—still shy one particular fish—he finds a policeman waiting outside.

  You’ll have to come with me, sir, the policeman says.

  The man is taken to jail and thrown in a cell.

  All I wanted was my fish! he says.

  What fish is that? says a prisoner beside him.

  Oh, it doesn’t matter, the man says.

  He sits there and sits there for hours and hours.

  He realizes it matters very much.

  When the man is released, he hurries on home and immediately looks in the kitchen. The fish is still gone; the teapot’s still there. He looks inside it to be sure, but there’s nothing.

  The man stands in the kitchen. He doesn’t know what to do. He thinks about making some tea, but for some reason he just doesn’t feel like it.

  Perhaps I will buy a fish, he thinks.

  The man goes down to the neighborhood pet store. Inside, he finds hundreds of fish. He walks up and down all the aisles.

  My God, he thinks, there must be thousands.

  He wanders the pet store for what seems like hours, staring and staring into the tanks. But none of the fish he sees seems right; none is the fish from his pot.

  Finally the man decides to ask the lady sitting behind the counter.

  In your teapot? she frowns. That’s very strange. I don’t know what kind of fish that would be. What kind of teapot do you have, exactly?

  The man hems and haws. He makes a tentative motion with his hands.

  It’s hard to describe, he says.

  The man and the woman go back to his house. They stand there in the kitchen, looking down.

  Hmm, says the woman, I still don’t know. It is a nice teapot, though.

  The man and the woman sit at the table and drink tea from the man’s best cups. The man tells the woman about the weird things that have happened, and the woman listens, and then tells him some back.

  My cousin got his porch stolen one time, she says.

  His whole porch? says the man, in wonder.

  Yep, says the woman.

  And they drink their tea.

  Later, they go out for supper.

  THE GIRL IN THE STORM

  THERE ONCE WAS A GIRL WHO WAS LOST IN A STORM. She wandered this way and that, this way and that, trying to find a way home. But the sky was too dark, and the rain too fierce; all the girl did was go in circles.

  Then, suddenly, there were arms around her. Strong arms—good strong arms. And they picked the girl up and carried her away.

  When she woke, she was lying in bed.

  It was a warm bed—very warm—by a roaring fire. The blankets were soft, and she was dry. She looked around the room. There were paintings on the walls.

  There was a hot cup of tea on the nightstand.

  Hello? called the girl. Hello? Hello?

  A young man appeared in the doorway. He looked down at the girl with a kind, quiet smile.

  Feel better? he said.

  And she did.

  The girl stayed with the man for quite a long time, until she had all her strength back.

  I guess it’s time for me to go home, she said, and started to gather her clothes.

  But when she got to the door, she saw the rain was still falling. If anything, it was falling even harder. So she took off her clothes again, and went back to bed, and lay in the man’s arms a little longer.

  This went on for many, many years, and eventually the girl grew very old.

  And then one day she discovered on the wall by the door the switch that turned the rain on and off.

  She stood there staring at the beautiful day outside, and then down at the simple little switch. She listened as the birds flew by the window, singing.

  And then she turned and went back to bed.

  In the night, that night, the man woke up.

  Did the rain stop? he said. I dreamt it did.

  And the girl put her arms around the man and held him tight.

  It may have, she said. But it’s all right.

  THE AFTERLIFE IS WHAT YOU LEAVE BEHIND

  A MAN STOCKPILES BELONGINGS FOR THE NEXT LIFE. HE buys coats, jackets, hats, socks, shoes; he buys umbrellas and belts and pretty flowers and couches and sports cars and big urns made of gold. He lines his house with hundreds of boxes of coins, bullion, stamps, paper banknotes. The man buys everything he thinks could be of use; the man buys everything he can.

  Then one day the man becomes ill—deathly ill.

>   Here it comes, he says.

  And he readies his belongings and lies down to die.

  I sure hope this works, he says.

  But as he’s lying there, a woman comes to him.

  Come with me awhile, she says.

  And the man gets up, and quietly goes with her, and is never seen or heard from again.

  In the morning, the man’s nurse arrives early, only to find her employer mysteriously gone. A funeral follows after some time, but as the man had no friends, they don’t come.

  But that night, as the man’s house stands empty, a breeze cracks a window and slips in. It glides over the couches, the jackets, the gold, smells the flowers, and tries on the shoes.

  And then it laughs, the breeze, and it smiles a little, and it whirls once more about the room. And then it flits back out the open window and is gone, with no plans to come again soon.

  III

  THE TREE

  A TREE STANDS IN THE FOREST. IT STANDS THERE FOR many years—watching animals go by, watching people go by, watching birds go by, watching clouds go by. It stands there, and it stands there, and it stands there, and it stands there.